


Riderless

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Action, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Homoerotic content aka explicit slash. Implied sibcest. Follows: Shining One, Plot - Can't stop reading, Subjects - Culture(s), Writing - Clear prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2003-11-22
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir's journey to Rivendell from Minas Tirith to Tharbad.</p><p>An attempt to reconcile book verse and movie verse. In the books, Boromir “lost” his horse at the ford of the Greyflood, and Eomer tells the Three Hunters that Boromir’s horse, lent to him by the Rohirrim, returned to Rohan riderless. Where, then, did Boromir get the horse he rode to Rivendell in the movie?</p><p>Warnings: Homoerotic content aka  explicit slash. Implied sibcest.  Follows: Shining One</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

**August 3018 T.A.**

Boromir patted Sheen, his mare. “Our last chance for a thorough wash for a hundred leagues. You will bathe, at least, no matter how cold the water. I’ve gotten used to my stink, but not yours.”

A month had passed since he had left Minas Tirith to find Imladris. He was drawing near to the Isen, the river marking the western boundary of Rohan.

Five days previously, he had stopped in Edoras to replenish his supplies. He had planned to stay for a week or more, but Theodred and Eomer were absent, and the company of the ailing Theoden King, his silent niece, and his repellent advisor held little attraction, so he left early the following morning. He should not have been so hasty.

The mare he had ridden in battle for the last four years had been killed the month before, in Sauron’s attack on Osgiliath, and Boromir had had to quickly replace her.

After sitting on her back for hundreds of miles, he realized his new mare, Sheen, was not suited for the arduous journey. She was skittish, starting at birds taking flight and the croaking of frogs. And she snapped. He should have traded her for another horse, in Edoras, when he had the chance.

Now he was facing the most desolate stretch, from the Isen to Tharbad, and his decision to travel alone weighed heavily upon him. He had let Denethor sway him; Sauron’s attack on Osgiliath heightened their fears that the city would fall, and Boromir had been unable to resist his father’s entreaty to go to Imladris in haste, and thereby turn their fortunes in the tides of war.  
  
***

He dismounted at the ford, planning to lead Sheen through the Isen, as the mare had nearly thrown him when they had crossed the larger streams that drained into the Entwash. He hesitated before crossing; something made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he had been a soldier too long to ignore the warning.

Then he heard it: the pounding of many hooves in the distance. There was nowhere to conceal himself and Sheen, but he was not troubled. A large mounted company could only be the Rohirrim in these lands. He waited with Sheen by the ford.

Two tall men, one dark-haired, one golden-haired, led the horsemen. Boromir counted two eoreds, two hundred and forty men. As the riders neared, Sheen fidgeted. Suddenly she reared and broke free, squealing loudly, and galloped towards the ford.

Boromir chased after her, a futile pursuit on foot. The golden-haired rider passed him swiftly, riding to the side of the frightened animal. As Boromir watched, the rider slid from one horseback to the other. The rider’s well-trained horse, now riderless, followed behind as the rider brought the skittish animal to a halt.

It was Eomer, son of Eomund, the king of Rohan’s nephew. Boromir had met him briefly four years earlier in the East-mark of Rohan, shortly after Eomer had been named Third Marshal of the Riddermark. They had met once prior to that, in Edoras twelve years earlier, Eomer then a lad of fourteen.

Eomer nudged Sheen into a trot and reached Boromir speedily.

“Many thanks, Eomer,” Boromir said, embarrassed by the contrast between his poor handling of the horse and Eomer’s skill.

“This mare is truly troublesome!” Eomer said in his clear, ringing voice. Eomer must be greatly agitated, Boromir thought, to not properly greet him.

“I saw no sign of that,” Boromir said with a smile. His embarrassment quickly faded; Eomer was not a man who would revel in showing him up. “You had her well in hand.”

“Nay, she was about to rear and throw me. She did not do so because I told her what would happen if she were to unseat me; we have been on the plains for weeks and fresh horsemeat would not go amiss.”

Both men laughed at the crude jest; Boromir knew the Rohirrim were as likely to eat horseflesh as they were to eat a child.

Eomer leapt off Sheen and handed her reins to Boromir. “Well met, Lord Boromir. I heard word of your journey in Edoras, and also of the riddle to which you seek an answer.” Eomer gave him a swift, formal embrace.

The dark-haired rider caught up to them and dismounted. It was Theodred, the Second Marshal of the Riddermark, and the son of Theoden King. Boromir and Theodred bowed to each other.

Eomer mounted his red bay stallion, Firefoot, and said, “Your journey sounds long and doubtful. And with this mare, it will be more doubtful still. We can remedy that. But it will have to wait until tomorrow. Dine with us this evening; we have little to offer, yet it will be better than what you had planned for your supper.”

As Boromir had planned dried meat followed by stale bread, he agreed readily.

They moved upriver a furlong north of the ford and made camp on the banks of the Isen. The Riders offered him day old bread, cheese, ale, and freshly caught rabbit roasted on sticks.

Boromir thanked the Valar for this encounter; he would not be among men for many hundreds of miles. Odd, Boromir thought, how often in my life I have been lonely, but rarely alone -- until this journey.

Eomer and Theodred were excellent company, for the men were like to him, spending their days protecting the borders of their country against marauding Orcs. So relaxed was he that evening that it was not until his second flask of ale that Boromir noticed Theodred eyeing him coldly.

Mardil. The name popped into his mind forcefully. His former lover had been executed in Rohan by the Rohirrim sixteen years earlier. Boromir’s mouth dried as he recalled it was Theodred who had overseen the execution. Theodred had kept it quiet at the request of Denethor, but the Second Marshal would have been privy to all the details.

Boromir stared unseeing as he thought of what Mardil might have said, to Theodred, in the last hours of his life. Anything. Everything. He could have told lies . . . no, Boromir corrected himself: Mardil _would_ have told lies, no doubt about it.

Why had he not perceived Theodred’s hostility before? It was not much of a mystery, Boromir reflected. Boromir had met Theodred only twice in the past, and it had been in formal circumstances. This was the first time he had been in the Second Marshal’s company outside of the Golden Hall in Edoras. It was also the first time he had been in Theodred’s company with his younger cousin Eomer . . .

“Lord Boromir? Did you meet with my sister, or not?”

Boromir came to with a start. Eomer had asked him the same question repeatedly.

“Yes. I joined Theoden at the king’s board in Meduseld. She is very fair.” Boromir had quite liked her, in spite of her long silences. She had none of the simpering mannerisms he dreaded in a woman, looking him directly in the eye, and clasping his hand firmly. Her speech was strong and clear, like her brother’s.

Eomer grinned. “Perhaps she will make a Steward of Gondor a fine wife some day.”

“No,” Theodred burst out, surprising Eomer. “That is, Eowyn is too young to consider marriage. Do you not agree, Lord Boromir?” His face was bland.

“Yes, she is young yet,” Boromir said. This was a bad turn, if Theodred did not consider him marriageable.

Eomer said, “You two set a poor example: forty, and unwed! Must we all follow in your footsteps? Marry when we are dotards, perhaps?”

Boromir and Theodred laughed. Abruptly, Boromir yawned. The sun had set two hours earlier, and they were seated on the ground around a large fire. Staring into the flames of a fire always made Boromir sleepy. The Riders still awake were singing, and that made him even sleepier.

He looked around for a likely place to lay down his head. Several tents had been pitched, although most of the riders slept next to their horses, sharing their blankets.

I cannot do that with Sheen, Boromir thought with a smile. She’d kick me in my sleep . . .

“What is it, Boromir?” Eomer asked softly. Theodred had moved away from the fire during the lull in conversation. It pleased Boromir that Eomer called him _Boromir_ and not _my lord_ when they were in private. He had asked the young man to do so when they had met four years earlier.

“I was thinking what a miserable bed partner my mare is,” Boromir replied absently, and reddened when Eomer laughed.

“What is her name?”

“Sheen,” Boromir said. Eomer nodded approvingly, as the mare was a light silver gray.

“She’s pretty enough for a bed partner,” Eomer teased.

“She’d kick.” Boromir said, his explanation making things worse.

Eomer said with a smile, “I knew what you meant. You do not look to me like a man who must resort to such measures.”

Boromir looked at Eomer keenly for a moment. When he had met Eomer four years earlier, he had found him beautiful. He was heavier in build than Boromir preferred, but that was something he had resolved to leave in the past.

All his adult life, Boromir had chosen his lovers for their resemblance to his brother Faramir. Although Eomer was like to Faramir, tall with long fair hair, he was a different man, at least on the surface: bold and warlike, yet Boromir could see that Eomer had a thoughtful mind. He shall be a great leader of men some day, Boromir thought. _Too bad he’s the king’s nephew, not his son._

Theodred returned to the fire. Eomer said, “We have no spare tent to offer you. You could share one with Theodred or I. His is the larger . . .”

“Eomer!” Theodred spoke sharply. “That is no way to treat our guest.” He smiled to lessen the sting of his words. “I shall share yours, Eomer, and Lord Boromir can have my tent to himself.”

Eomer was firm. “Absolutely not, cousin. I’ve shared a tent with you hundreds of times, and your conversation is dreary to me. Our guest will stay with me and tell me of Mundburg, if he pleases.”

Boromir carefully avoided Theodred’s eyes. He had no desire to sleep alone; he had been doing so for a month. Listening to another man snore would cheer his loneliness, at least for one night.

“As you wish, Eomer,” Theodred said curtly. He rose and went to his tent.

Boromir followed Eomer to his tent, which was cramped with the two of them in it, although it was tall enough that he could stand in it to undress, which was a rarity. Eomer kept up a steady stream of talk, which Boromir appreciated, as it distracted him while the man next to him stripped down to nothing.

Boromir decided to follow Eomer’s example. Except for his night in Edoras, he had slept in his clothes for a month; the thought of sleeping out of them for one night was appealing. Before their supper, he had taken a dip in the Isen, so he no longer felt grimy. He had washed thoroughly in Edoras, and a servant there had tended to his clothes, so he was not as filthy as a man who has traveled one hundred leagues has a right to be.

Boromir was forty, but he did not look a day older than he had ten years earlier, nor did he feel it. He could expect to live to one hundred or even longer, for the blood of Numenor was in him, however distantly. He was in the prime of his life, and felt no shame disrobing in front of the younger man. Boromir kept his eyes to himself, yet he could not help seeing that Eomer’s frame was slighter once out of his heavy armour.

Boromir lay down on the pile of blankets and furs; far better than his usual bed, though he had not suffered much in Rohan. The tall grass of the plains, squashed down with his cloak over it, had made a pleasant bed.

Eomer reclined, blew out the lantern, covered himself with blankets, and then they spoke long into the night.

Eomer first asked Boromir for his impression of Theoden’s advisor, Grima.

Boromir replied that he had found Grima wise, if unpleasant to look upon. “It was he that suggested to me my course, following the Greyflood north from Tharbad.”

“Hmmph.” Eomer was not impressed. He moved on to questioning Boromir about Minas Tirith: how many people dwelt there; the height of the White Tower; and did the city truly have seven levels and seven gates? He listened avidly to all Boromir had to say.

“I envy you Boromir, that you live in such a place. You must have laughter and song every night.”

“As frequently as you do, Eomer.” Boromir said. “I am like you, always upon the borders of the land. I have no leisure time for amusements. Sometimes I spend an evening at an inn, but that is rare.”

“I still envy you, for I have _never_ spent an evening at an inn!”

Boromir was reminded of Faramir’s interrogations following his homecomings. He smiled in the grey darkness.

“Boromir, why does Theodred dislike you?” Eomer asked cautiously.

Boromir considered his answer, for he wished to tell as much of the truth as he could.

“Years ago, when you were still a lad, Theodred carried out the execution of a soldier of Gondor. He was executed for theft. The soldier was a former friend of mine. I had not seen him for years.”

“Begging your pardon, but we do not execute thieves,” Eomer said. “They are escorted to the border.”

“There are times when you do,” Boromir said. “There are times when theft is . . . treason.” He did not wish to tell Eomer the details of Mardil’s crime, for it would cast a deadly pall over the evening.

Eomer nodded, a glimmer of understanding in his face. “Yet why should Theodred dislike you for this?”

“Knowing my . . . friend, he would have said anything to save his neck. He undoubtedly made more of our friendship than there was. He must have, for Theodred sent to my father for permission to carry out the execution.”

Eomer mulled it over. “Still it does not explain it. Theodred would not trust the word of a thief.”

“He was an unusually gifted liar,” Boromir said wryly. He was unable to speak Mardil’s name to Eomer.

“Boromir . . . ” Eomer began, and there was something so like Faramir’s relentless questioning in his tone that Boromir laughed aloud. Eomer laughed with him.

“You must wish you had taken up Theodred on his offer and slept alone! Forgive me, but this is a rare opportunity for me, though I will admit I am going to plead with you to stay here for a day or two longer. We shall see if we can find you a horse more temperate than Sheen for your travels, and a spare pack horse as well.”

Boromir thanked him for his kindness. Eomer, who had been lying on his back, rolled over onto his stomach, resting his head on his folded arms. “Boromir, about Minas Tirith. Surely . . .”

“Surely what?” Boromir said, exasperated and amused by Eomer’s hesitation.

“Surely you have had lovers? In a large city, no one would know. Not like Edoras, where everyone knows my name! Tell me, Boromir, how many women have you had?”

Boromir laughed. “It is not as easy as you think. Each gate is guarded day and night, so it is not possible to move about the city unremarked. It is far easier to go unnoticed out in the field.” Boromir stopped. Eomer would shortly recall that there were no women in the field!

“Ah, the inns!” Eomer said, and Boromir breathed a sigh of relief. “There is not one inn in all of Rohan, only a few poor taverns. We get no travelers. So, Boromir, how many women?”

“Do you think I am a scoundrel, who would tell? The lasses deserve better,” Boromir said. He was grinning.

“Five?”

“More.” _They weren’t lasses, but I don’t have to explain that._

“Ten?”

“More.”

Eomer gave a mock groan. “My answer would be: none! And I am more than twenty-five years of age!”

Boromir laughed. “I’ll ask Theoden King to let you come to Minas Tirith as soon as may be.”

Out of pity for Eomer, who appeared desperate to imagine that Boromir had cut a wide swath through the women of Gondor, Boromir told him a partially true tale of using a friend’s lodging in the city for a tryst. “My lover and I had nearly four hours together that night. It was bliss.” _Until he started weeping because I did not love him, it was a fine night, indeed._

Eomer sighed enviously. “I could never do such a thing in Edoras, nor in any of our small hamlets.”

Boromir was absorbed again in pondering Theodred’s hostility and did not notice when Eomer fell silent. Then he heard a quiet snore. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.

He was not in a state for sleep. His brief glimpse of Eomer unclad had made him stiff, a problem enhanced by their talk of lovers, and his awareness of Eomer naked a few feet away. Boromir’s nakedness under the blankets made it easy for his hand to remedy the problem. But the quarters were too close; he had not shared so small a sleeping space for many years. Fortunately, he was tired from his long journey and slept before long.

He awoke suddenly in the middle of the night, alarmed because he could not see the stars or moon. Then he remembered he was in a tent. A sound caught his attention: Eomer was moving under his blankets. Boromir suppressed a laugh when he realized Eomer was pleasuring himself, his breathing loud and harsh, quieting at times so as not to disturb Boromir.

“Now _you_ must regret my not taking up Theodred on his offer,” Boromir said in a wide-awake voice.

There was a flurry of blankets and Eomer sat up, his braided hair sticking out wildly.

“What?” he croaked. “Are you awake, Boromir?”

“As a soldier, you should have learned to do it quietly by this time.”

Eomer cursed in Rohirric and Boromir enjoyed the sound, reflecting that it was a good thing he did not understand it.

“As a soldier, you should have had the courtesy to take no notice! I wasn’t finished!” Eomer flung himself back on his blankets in disgust.

Boromir laughed, then cursed as well; his stiffness had returned.

“What troubles you, Boromir?”

Boromir explained his condition, though not the cause.

“It is well deserved, Boromir! If you had been silent for a moment or two longer . . .” Eomer’s speech halted when Boromir pushed his coverings aside and took himself briskly in hand.

“Oh,” Eomer said.

Boromir felt Eomer’s gaze on his naked body and he grew harder. His unoccupied hand went to his nipples and stroked them. Eomer inhaled sharply. Then Boromir was aware that Eomer was following his example, lying on his side, watching him. Eomer’s breathing became harsh once more.

Boromir fought the temptation to touch him. No lover, have you? I could give you a hand with that. More than a hand. A mouth . . . Boromir came hard, making no attempt to muffle his cries or to hide his release. There was a rough gasp next to him.

Boromir looked at the young horse lord and wished he hadn’t. Eomer lay on his side, his hand still on his cock, eyes closed, mouth open, panting. Come dripped off his hand. Boromir made a movement towards him before he stopped himself.

“Now we can sleep.” Boromir said softly. “And now you know the great lover of Minas Tirith spends most of his nights with his hand.”

Eomer opened his eyes and smiled. “Boromir, why did you touch yourself there?” Eomer pointed to his chest.

“Try it next time,” Boromir said. He fell asleep.

***

“Get up, Man of Gondor! Or you will get no breakfast.”

Boromir opened his eyes. Eomer was fully dressed and appeared to have been up for some time. The Marshal handed him a cup of a milky liquid.

Boromir sniffed and wrinkled his face. “What in the name of the Valar is that?”

“Drink it.”

Under Eomer’s watchful eye, Boromir downed it. It was sour and fizzy. Boromir grimaced.

Eomer laughed. “Fermented mare’s milk. An acquired taste.”

Boromir tossed his blankets off and rose, stretching. Eomer stopped laughing abruptly when Boromir stood naked next to him, Boromir was pleased to notice.

“Boromir, you are as old as my cousin, but you do not look it,” Eomer said admiringly.

Boromir turned away, for Eomer’s gaze heated a part of him that would soon draw attention to itself. He dressed, not putting on his mail. Among the Rohirrim, he would not need it.

“Before we go break our fast, Boromir, there is something I must show you,” Eomer said. He was well pleased with himself.

Boromir followed him to where Sheen had been tethered for the night. Eomer crouched down and pulled up Sheen’s right hind leg, showing Boromir the bottom of her hoof.

“There!” Eomer said triumphantly.

Boromir peered and saw a horse hoof. “What is it? She has a stone?”

Eomer sighed at his blindness. “Can you not see the crack? And she has them on all four hooves. You have an unbalanced horse, my friend!”

“Unbalanced?” Boromir said, confused.

“Yes, she has an uneven gait, putting a strain on her hooves, hence the cracks. She is fine for short distances, but on a long journey like this, she is going to be miserable. And miserable company. She needs a farrier to look after her and keep her hooves trimmed properly.”

“If you say so. I cannot see these cracks you speak of.” Boromir knelt, his head almost touching Eomer’s.

“Right there. No, feel it!”

Boromir extended a finger and Eomer grabbed his hand and dragged Boromir’s forefinger down along the hoof.

“I feel it!” Boromir said, surprised. Eomer laughed. Boromir turned to smile at him. Eomer’s face was only inches away, and Eomer was still holding his hand.

Boromir straightened. _Perhaps I should stay in Theodred’s tent tonight, alone._

***

Theodred asked Boromir for his guidance that day, as the Rohirrim were surveying the ford with an eye to defending it. Theodred explained, “There are few places in our wide land where we could be caught unawares, bottled up, but this is one of them.”

The ground was broken and uneven, and could not be crossed swiftly. A horse would have to slow to a walk, even be led. Boromir advised them to avoid battle there at all costs, to fight on the level ground before the ford if necessary, but not in the river itself.

Late in the afternoon, Eomer brought four horses to Boromir, three mares and one stallion, to consider in trade for Sheen. Boromir rode the four animals in succession and tried to take in what Eomer was telling him about the beasts.

“Eomer, I understand little of what you say. I trust your judgment. You know what I need; please choose for me.”

Eomer said seriously, “We are trying to find a horse that cares for you, and you for it. That will matter most on this journey. Any of these horses would suit.”

Boromir smiled. He had once had a horse he cared for, a mare named Vingilot, dead these eight years. His smile drooped. “I want a mare,” he said firmly.

Eomer smiled, his eyes glinting. “I was going to recommend the stallion. He seems quite taken with you.”

Eomer walked off before Boromir could respond. He thought of the evening ahead in the tent and shivered.

He reminded himself that no matter what Eomer said, or did, the young man was inexperienced, and he was the nephew of the king. Eomer is your ally, not your lover, Boromir told himself sternly.

He drank three flasks of ale that night, hoping it would put him to sleep. Eomer left on an errand after supper, so Boromir went to the tent alone. He stripped and lay down, falling asleep quickly under the soft blankets.

***

He awoke unexpectedly, hearing harsh breathing four feet away.

“Boromir? Are you awake?”

“Yes,” Boromir said, smiling. These late night conversations reminded him so much of his youth.

“I’m trying your suggestion,” Eomer said huskily. “Nothing is happening. What is supposed to happen?”

Boromir sat up and stared in the dim light. He had left the lantern alight for Eomer’s return, and it cast a faint glow upon one wall of the tent.

Eomer was naked on top of the blankets, stroking his hands over his nipples uncertainly. For the first time, Boromir allowed his gaze to dwell on Eomer: the powerful shoulders, the sharp bones of his hips, and the taut muscles of his legs. He tore his gaze away from Eomer’s erect cock with an almost audible effort.

Boromir discreetly adjusted his blankets so his lap was well concealed, then moved two feet closer, dragging the blankets with him.

“You are doing it wrong.”

“How? Up and down?”

“You are starting off too hard. Start slow.” Boromir lay down to demonstrate on himself. “Like this.” He rubbed the tips of his fingers lightly over his nipples, which hardened quickly. The rest of him followed suit.

“After they are hard, pinch them,” Boromir said. “And if that doesn’t feel right, go back to moving slowly.”

Eomer followed his instructions. “I think it is working,” he said. “I feel something, but I’m not sure . . .”

“Not all men feel something there,” Boromir said. _And how do you know that, Man of Gondor?_ “Or so I’ve heard.”

Eomer sat up and grabbed Boromir’s hands. “Show me.” He pulled Boromir’s hands to his chest. Boromir’s fingertips brushed the half hard nipples before he jerked his hands back.

Eomer sighed and lay back. “Then let me watch you again.”

“It’s all right. You surprised me,” Boromir croaked. He sat up again and touched Eomer’s nipples lightly, teasing them until they were as hard as two peas. Eomer lay still, his hands at his sides, his eyes closed. Boromir pinched the nipples suddenly and Eomer’s hips moved up with a jerk.

“Oh,” Eomer said. He tried -- and failed -- to keep still while Boromir pinched his nipples harder and harder. Eomer’s hand slid to his groin, then returned to the ground reluctantly.

“You can touch yourself while I do this,” Boromir whispered. Eomer immediately did.

What happened to ally, not lover, Boromir wondered. He wanted to kiss Eomer so badly his mouth was open and he was licking his lips. His blanket of discretion had fallen away and he was hard and leaking. His eyes were fixed on Eomer’s hand on Eomer’s cock.

“Boromir,” Eomer muttered. “Come closer.”

“Why?” Boromir asked desperately. How was he to get out of this situation gracefully -- assuming he wanted to get out of it? He watched the hand rise and fall.

“I need to feel you next to me,” Eomer said, his breath coming quickly.

Boromir gave up on thinking. He lay down next to Eomer and clasped Eomer’s erection in his right hand, teasing a nipple with his left. He caressed the other nipple with his teeth and lips. Eomer let out a low, hoarse cry and rolled onto his side, facing Boromir. Boromir kissed him, keeping his lips closed when Eomer’s mouth did not open. Eomer grabbed Boromir’s cock and stroked it, but he was too excited to do more then flail.

I need to put an end to this, Boromir thought. He slid down and took Eomer into his mouth. The horse lord made the most satisfying sound Boromir had ever heard, a cry of surprised rapture.

Boromir had completed only a few strokes with his lips and tongue when Eomer went rigid and came in his mouth. He swallowed as Eomer jerked against him repeatedly, each movement weaker than the last.

Boromir lay down next to him, grinning.

“You swallowed it,” Eomer said in surprise. “My . . .”

An acquired taste, thought Boromir. “What was I supposed to do with it? Save it in a cup and have it in the morning?’

Eomer laughed. His hand grasped Boromir’s erection and Boromir sagged against him.

“You like that?” Eomer growled.

Boromir would have smiled if he had not been busy panting. Eomer was inexperienced, but he recognized power over another when he saw it. Eomer had one arm under his shoulders and one arm over him. Unexpectedly, Boromir wanted the powerful arms to crush him, make him submit, force him to scream with pleasure . . .

“I like it,” Boromir said with an effort. Eomer kissed him lightly, not opening his mouth, while his hand moved quickly on Boromir. It took only a few strokes for Boromir to climax as well. To Boromir’s regret, Eomer stopped the kiss as soon as his task was done.

“Why were we so fast?” he asked Boromir, pulling away and lying flat on his back, his arms crossed below his head.

“Because we wanted it badly,” Boromir said. “When that happens, you rest for an hour or so, and then the second time, you last longer. Women like you to last.” _Men, too._

“By the Valar, Boromir, I have learned more in the last two days than I have learned in my whole life! What else can you tell me?”

Boromir laughed. He wanted Eomer to take him into his arms and fall asleep with him that way, but he was uneasy, for it was the first time in his life he had touched a man intimately without knowing that his partner desired him unequivocally.

Was Eomer responding to him merely because Boromir was there and naked? There were many soldiers who lay with men when no woman were to be had.

“When you lie with a woman, take care of yourself first. Otherwise you’ll climax before you are even inside her,” Boromir said. He was entranced by the way Eomer’s upper body looked with his arms crossed like that . . .

“How soon before?”

“An hour before, for you. You are young and will recover quickly.”

“What about you? How long do you need?”

“I don’t. I can hold out for a long time, half an hour, even longer.” One good thing about getting older.

“And the women like that?” Eomer asked, fascinated. “It does not hurt them?”

“Not at all,” Boromir said. That much he knew, for he had seen, or more accurately heard, women with soldiers in the camps. They are no different from men when it comes to wanting it hard and fast, Boromir thought. He fell asleep at Eomer’s side.

Again, he was awakened by an already clad Eomer. Eomer knelt on the ground next to him.

“Boromir, we have to leave here this morning. I am sorry. I thought we would stay another day, but Theodred says that we have been gone from the East-mark for too long.”

Now that doesn’t surprise me, Boromir thought, still half asleep. Before he could think better of it, he reached up and caressed Eomer’s neck.

“It’s all right. I need to be on my way.”

Eomer’s face was a study in disappointment. “I was hoping you would stay at least one more night,” he whispered. His face came closer and closer, and Boromir held his breath, waiting for the kiss.

Eomer smiled. “I like the way you look at me, Boromir,” he said in a low voice. His lips touched Boromir’s and for the first time his mouth opened. Their tongues touched and Boromir slid his fingers into Eomer’s hair.

“Eomer?” Theodred’s voice was outside the tent. Eomer stood quickly and stepped out through the tent flap. Boromir rose and dressed hastily, putting on his mail.

***

His new horse, Fram, a brown stallion with a white blaze, was good-natured and tireless. He would reach the Greyflood in two weeks at his current pace.

The Old South Road was little more than a sunken track. Because of the holes and ruts, Boromir rode alongside it. Sporadically, ancient trees lined the road.

The road would take him far west of the Misty Mountains, so he would have to double back; still, he was better off taking the longer road, for once he reached Tharbad, he could follow the course of the river Greyflood north instead of wandering aimlessly in the wild.

How far north he would travel he did not know. Grima had not helped him there, though he had recommended that Boromir travel on the western bank, though his final road lay east. Not so far as the Northern Wastes, surely, yet the journey could be well over one hundred leagues from Tharbad to the far northern dale called Imladris, Rivendell in the common tongue.

Dunland was desolate. After a few days, Boromir spoke aloud to himself to fill the emptiness. Fram liked it, blowing encouragingly back at him.

At night, he and Fram slept back to back. Fram seemed to appreciate it as much as he did. “Good horse,” were usually the last words out of Boromir’s mouth at the end of each day.

He had not accepted the offer of an extra horse for baggage, for he was concerned about feeding and watering two horses in the distant lands. Eomer had pressed him to do so, almost losing his temper. “What if Fram is lamed? It is madness to go so far with one horse.”

But Boromir thought he had imposed enough on the Rohirrim; Sheen for Fram was by no means a fair trade, though Eomer assured him that any highborn lady of Rohan would be happy with her. She is a very pretty horse, Boromir thought, and he flushed as Eomer came to mind yet again. The image of the young man lying on his side right after climaxing haunted him pleasantly.

I can return this way, through the Gap of Rohan, Boromir told himself for the hundredth time. And perhaps Eomer will come to Minas Tirith for a spell. I’ll have to find out where the women are first.

Looking back on the two evenings in Eomer’s tent, he suspected that Eomer was slightly intrigued by men and greatly intrigued by women. Boromir thought that, if he had not spoken up that first night, nothing would have happened between them.

He was confounded by his response to Eomer. No man had affected him this way since his first lover. Typically, he was dominant in his relationships, refusing to be taken, though he knew his reluctance was a matter of trust, not preference. There was only one man, now, that he would grant it.

Did he trust Eomer? It was too soon to say, yet his fantasies of the young Marshal were all of Eomer crushing him to his chest and taking him hard . . .

Fram let out a snort; Boromir had unconsciously squeezed the horse with his legs. He patted the horse’s shoulder in apology.

He should not have taken Eomer into his mouth. Two men could pull at each other and still consider themselves men for women only; Boromir doubted there was a soldier in Gondor who had not done it at least once. But right-minded men did not do what he had done. He feared that, upon his return, Eomer would treat him warily, after thinking over what had happened between them, no longer in the heat of the moment.

Boromir grinned at the memory of the sound Eomer had made. Had it been the happiest moment in the young man’s life? Boromir thought it may well have been.

***

Two weeks passed, and he was once again low on food. All he had left was cram for three weeks, and enough dried meat for a week. He did not hunt, for he did not wish to spend the time to do so, but soon he would need to, to augment his diet.

His spirits picked up when the condition of the road improved, as it meant he was nearing the fords. He and Fram arrived there later that day.

Man and horse washed and watered themselves thoroughly in the shallows of the Greyflood. Boromir resolved to delay their crossing until the next day, for he did not like the look of the water.

The Greyflood started hundreds of miles to the north, fed by snows in the Misty Mountains. It was mid-August, and the snows had been melting since May. The river was forbiddingly high. Swirling currents marked deeper holes.

***

Boromir remembered the next day as one of the worst of his life.

He and Fram were two thirds of the way across the river. The river was wide at this point, perhaps two hundred feet. He had dismounted, removed his mail hauberk, and rolled it in his heavy leather surcoat, tying the bundle to Fram’s back.

The slippery stones beneath were treacherous, and they went slowly. The water was above Boromir’s waist, touching Fram’s belly. The current pulled at them. There was a sliding, snapping sound, and Fram thrashed; Boromir fell when a hoof struck his shin.

“Fram,” he said urgently, “Stay still. Don’t move.” The horse collapsed into the water, making a terrible high-pitched sound, and sank below the surface, rising again with a frantic splash. Boromir seized the horse about the neck but could not stop him from moving; the horse outweighed him by nearly a thousand pounds. Something was seriously wrong; the horse must have stepped into a deep hole, trapping one leg.

Boromir struggled to quiet the horse as the water pulled at them. He moved around Fram, seeking the limb that was trapped. The loose drift of stone and gravel under them was crumbling; they were sinking deeper, the water up to Boromir’s shoulders. He removed the heavy bundle of his mail and surcoat from Fram’s back, letting it sink. His body grew numb and Fram sagged dejectedly into the water. Abruptly, Fram heaved himself up and was gone, washed away in the current.

The stones beneath him shifted and water closed over his head. He lost count of the number of times his head broke the surface only to sink back down. Then he heard the harsh cries of men, and he was roughly fished out of the water with sticks and rope.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir's journey to Rivendell from Minas Tirith to Tharbad.

Exhausted from the struggle in the water, it was a few minutes before he was aware of his surroundings. He was lying on the bank of the river, and he was bound. His sword, his shield, his horn, and his boots had been taken. He eyed the men around him, and he was crestfallen as he counted twenty of them. They were not Wild Men; they were like no men he had ever seen, with sallow faces and lank, dark hair.

He had an impression that they were army deserters. Why? At last he had it: their boots were identical, as if they had been made by the same hand. Their garments were also similar in make, although in great disrepair. They were armed with long knives.

Their leader was short and wiry, with an ugly face.

“What is your name? Where are you going?”

Boromir did not reply. The man kicked him.

“It does no good to be silent. You are no wandering vagabond, not with this sword and shield. Someone will pay to get you back.” He kicked Boromir again. “You were heading north, and so are we; that’s where we will take you.”

Boromir wanted to ask what had become of Fram, but feared to know the answer. He was certain they would have pursued the horse if possible, for most of his belongings were borne by Fram.

***

They tied a rope around his neck and held him at knife point while they carefully removed his clothing, leaving him in his breeches. His armour and surcoat were fished out of the water but not returned to him.

His boots were given back to him, however, and he was ordered to stand. Then they moved on, pulling Boromir by the rope as if he were a beast, heading north on the Old South Road.

Once on the road, he was able to observe the men with greater ease. They wore packs, but he did not see any of the supplies or equipment Fram had carried. In particular, they did not have Fram’s fine saddle.

Boromir despaired; the horse must have perished in the crossing, washed downstream, battered by rocks. Tears formed in his eyes as he recalled Fram’s frightened shrieks in the river.

***

For three days, he traveled north with the men. His fear that they would kill him or abandon him in the wilderness lessened, for they fed him well enough. During the day he was restrained only with the rope around his neck, but at night his boots were taken away and he was securely bound. He slept little, fearing what might be done to him while he was unconscious.

He heard the men talk of Breeland and Hoarwell, but could not tell from their brief comments if the two names were their destination. He had never heard of either.

On the third night, they came to a shallow depression like a wide bowl, marked with a few trees, and cut in two by a slender, swift stream that flowed east to the Greyflood. The men settled and made camp, as if they intended to stay awhile.

The men took out flasks and drank. Soon they were in a celebratory mood and built a large fire. Four or five hours passed, until it was long after the middle of the night, and still they drank and piled wood on the fire.

Boromir had been tied to a tree for the night. His ankles were bound, his wrists tied in front of him to his ankles, so he sat on the ground with his knees bent, his back slightly hunched over. There was still a rope around his neck, loosely tied to the tree. It did not prevent him from moving his head. Another rope around his waist kept him fast to the tree. He was unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time in the uncomfortable position, though his weariness was growing so acute he thought he might pass out.

He came out of his stupor at the sound of loud voices and the clashing of iron. The men were fighting among themselves. He could not see the fight, only hear it. There was a sickening, gurgling cry and a howl of triumph. The shouts of the men were silenced for a moment, then broke out louder than before.

It was like being with orcs who looked like men. Fear rose in him. There was no reason for them to kill him, but these goblin men would need no reason.

Then Boromir’s situation turned acutely worse. The drunken leader, blood on his hands, approached Boromir and cut the rope around his waist. Boromir fell onto his side, curled up, as he could not take his hands from his ankles. The leader grabbed him and grunted, tugging Boromir’s breeches down. Two more men came over to help.

Boromir’s mind closed down, as when he had been badly wounded in battle -- he never recalled anything that happened before, during, or after a serious injury. Nothing had happened to him yet, but his mind wished to be elsewhere, away from his body, which was about to suffer.

As a result, he was only mildly interested when the leader fell to the ground with an arrow in his back. He watched the next ruffian drop with the same disinterest. When the third hit the ground, however, awareness returned.

Boromir wriggled on the dirt, searching for a knife dropped by one of the dead men. When he found one, he held the hilt between his feet, cutting the bonds around his wrists on the blade. Then it was quick work to remove the rope around his ankles and neck. He was free. He stood, fell over, pulled up his breeches, and stood again. _Never try to walk when your breeches are around your knees_ , he thought.

While he struggled with his bonds, a golden-haired man on a red horse rode thunderously into the camp, his sword flailing. Four more of the men fell dead, and the rest scattered, fleeing the long steel blade.

Boromir attacked the distracted ruffians with the knife. After killing two men, he found his sword in a heap with his other belongings and drew it. It felt good in his hand. In a few minutes, two more of the ruffians were dead.

The rider was doing most of the work, however, and Boromir approved of this, for his muscles were stiffening following his long period of time in bonds. The rush of battle wore off swiftly, leaving behind nausea, exhaustion, and dizziness. He sat on the ground with a thump. The camp was suddenly blessedly quiet. He was annoyed when Eomer seized his arms and shook him.

“Boromir? Are you injured?”

“No,” Boromir said shortly. He made sounds of displeasure when Eomer hauled him to his feet and forced him to walk. Sixteen men lay dead, including the ruffian killed by the leader earlier. The remaining four had fled northwards on the road.

Eomer whistled sharply and three horses trotted up. He pushed Boromir up on one, gathered what he could find of Boromir’s property, and they rode gently south on the road for a mile or two before entering a copse that Boromir recalled seeing earlier that day. The slender stream cut a lazy half circle around it. The sky was growing faintly lighter.

Boromir slid off the horse and yawned hugely. Eomer quickly rolled out blankets and shoved their luggage into drifts of leaves. The horses slipped into the trees and hid themselves when Eomer made a clicking sound.

Boromir admired the efficiency of man and horse between his yawns. Eomer pushed him down on the blankets and covered him with more blankets, then lay next to him, wrapping his arms and legs around Boromir. Boromir realized for the first time that he was shivering violently. Eomer loosened his grip for a moment and handed him a flask, but Boromir could not hold it steady, so Eomer tilted the contents into his mouth. Boromir swallowed the brandy gratefully.

Boromir smiled belatedly at his rescuer. Or rather _rescuers_ , for he had not failed to notice that the horse that bore him to the copse was Fram.

***

Boromir woke from a sleep he had not known he had taken. It was late morning, and the air was warm. Eomer was sitting up next to him, keeping watch. He looked indescribably weary.

“Get some sleep,” Boromir said. “I can stay awake now.” Eomer staggered up and yawned.

“Can you help me raise a tent?” Eomer asked. Boromir nodded, and they had it up quickly. It was smaller and lower than the one Boromir had shared with Eomer, and their bodies almost filled the space inside. Eomer immediately lay down and went to sleep. A good soldier, Boromir thought.

He left the tent and rummaged through the leaves in search of their luggage. An unseen horse nickered softly at him. He found doubtful cheese, dry bread, and water. He sprinkled the bread with water to soften it and make it edible. The cheese tasted better than it looked.

In fact, everything was beautiful. He was alive, and he had not been raped by a mob of men. He smiled at the morning.

Eomer woke in the late afternoon. He whistled to the horses, who left the copse and strayed on the grass. The two men ate again, washed themselves in the stream, and shared the brandy.

“Boromir, I must return to the men’s camp. I left most of your equipment behind in the madness last night.”

Boromir nodded, fighting down fear as Eomer rode away on Firefoot, taking the two pack horses with him. Fram stayed with Boromir, who resisted an urge to cling to the beast in Eomer’s absence.

Eomer returned less than an hour later. Many sacks were slung on Firefoot and the two pack horses.

“They were well supplied; it is most curious. I found your horn and shield.” Eomer grinned. They settled the bags into the leaves and returned to the tent.

“Tell me the story,” Boromir said.

Eomer laughed. “No story to tell. I left the eored, two days after we parted at the Ford of Isen, to bring you a pack horse. His name is Mickle, by the way. Fram found me en route, and he led me to you. After I caught up to you and your companions, I followed you at a distance and waited for an opportunity.” Eomer took a sip of brandy. “Then they made it easy for me, getting drunk. And fighting over you.”

Boromir involuntarily shuddered at the reminder. They were well wrapped in the blankets inside the tent. It was growing dark. Boromir drew close to Eomer; he had ceased to worry what the young man thought of it, for he needed the closeness more than he had ever needed it in his life. Eomer put an arm around his shoulders.

“So that,” Eomer concluded, “is how I rescued the fair maiden in distress.”

Boromir regarded him somberly. “The fair maiden thanks you.”

Eomer laughed and squeezed Boromir with his arm. “Now that you are so deeply in my debt that you will never get out of it, I am going to ask you more questions, Man of Gondor, and I expect the truth this time.”

“Fair enough,” Boromir said, leaning his head on Eomer’s shoulder.

“How many women have you had?”

It did not take Boromir long to come up with the exact number. “None.”

“And how many men have you had?” Eomer’s voice wavered.

“Perhaps fifteen.” _Not including you._ “Though some of them had me,” he added.

“It cannot be,” Eomer finally spoke, his voice a whisper. His arm around Boromir’s shoulders stiffened. “Everyone knows that men who lie with men are . . . “

“Weak? Unmanly?” Boromir suggested. Eomer smiled uncertainly. “If such men are weak, then you are as well, Eomer. For you have lain with me, and spent in my mouth.”

Eomer flushed, but he did not pull away. “Yes,” he said. “But it was with _you_.”

Boromir laughed, though he was touched by sadness. “I am no different, Eomer, from any other man who likes men.”

Eomer took away his arm and lay back. Boromir let him think.

“After we parted at the Isen, Theodred told me to stay away from you,” Eomer said after a long silence. “He said you had dark desires.” Eomer had ceased to address Boromir and was speaking to himself. “When you looked at me, I felt . . . beautiful. You looked at me that way at the fire that first night. I saw it and Theodred saw it, yet you did not know you had done it. It made Theodred angry. It made me curious; no one has ever looked at me that way.”

Boromir smiled but did not speak. He hoped Eomer would be more observant in the future.

“And the next night, when you touched me, I wanted something from you, I did not know what.” Eomer halted. Abruptly, he lay on Boromir and kissed him, his mouth opening, his tongue seeking entrance.

Boromir summoned the determination to push him away. “Eomer, why did you come after me? Was it truly to bring me a pack horse? You traveled seventy leagues for that?”

It took Eomer a moment to speak. He was breathing heavily, his eyes focused on Boromir’s mouth. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

“That is not good enough,” Boromir said, hating himself. Why could he not take what Eomer was offering? His heart answered him quickly: because he did not know what Eomer was offering. “I do not lie with men to give them comfort when no women are handy.” He had known soldiers used that way, and he thought it contemptible. All of his partners had desired _him_ , not a phantom of a woman.

Eomer flushed angrily. “Is that what you think? That I would use you like that?”

“I think you already have,” Boromir answered coldly.

Eomer pulled away as far as he could in the small space. It was dark, for there was only a quarter moon. They had lit no fire, as they had no interest in attracting the attention of whatever was living in the wild lands. Boromir felt panic rising, and desperately wanted Eomer close to him again. _Apologize, and he’ll hold you again. He’ll even kiss you._

He stayed silent as Eomer gathered up a few of the blankets and left the tent. Boromir could hear him settling ten feet away. He thought he would be unable to sleep, but exhaustion overtook him and he was dragged down into darkness.

***

He awoke struggling. The men were back, holding him down, their foul breath in his face. He hit out wildly and heard a gasp of pain.

“Boromir! It’s me! Stop!” Eomer’s voice was in his ear. Boromir froze and looked at the golden-haired man, a dark spot on his cheek where Boromir had hit him. His hands were on Boromir’s upper arms. Boromir thrashed hard, the touch suddenly unbearable.

“You were having a nightmare.” Eomer released him and stood, hunched over in the small tent. “I heard you yelling.”

The cold sweat of the nightmare was drying on Boromir’s skin. The men had been all around him, and there had been no way to stop it . . .

Eomer opened the flap of the tent.

“Eomer. You are right, I was dreaming.” Boromir tried to speak evenly. Eomer turned to look at him. “Please.” Boromir said. He had to ask. Had to. “Please hold me so I can fall asleep again.”

Eomer came to him swiftly and wrapped him up in his arms. Boromir was so relieved he almost wept. If Eomer had not come after him . . . He shivered and Eomer tightened his arms.

“It’s all right,” Eomer whispered.

Unmanly and weak, indeed. Boromir was doomed to take upon himself every insult he had handed out. He sighed hugely, tension going out of him with the sound, then pushed himself against Eomer’s hard, warm body, utter safety enveloping him.

Eomer shifted against him awkwardly, angling his hips away. It was obvious, but Boromir wanted to be certain: he slid his hand down to Eomer’s crotch to touch the hard cock Eomer was trying not to press against him. Eomer made a soft hiss when Boromir touched him.

“It’s all right,” Boromir echoed. He pressed his hand harder, and rubbed. Eomer’s grip on him weakened.

“Boromir, don’t.” Eomer said. “Unless . . .”

Boromir kissed him. Eomer kissed him back. It was difficult to say when Eomer’s kiss changed from gentle exploration to feverish demand. It may have been when Eomer’s hands explored his chest, and Boromir’s nipples hardened under his fingers. Or it may have been when Boromir seized the hair on the back of Eomer’s head so he could get better purchase. Or perhaps it was when Eomer rolled on top of him and Boromir spread his legs, wrapping them around Eomer’s waist. Certainly it was before Eomer began to thrust against him.

They rolled onto their sides, their mouths pressed together, Eomer’s kisses rapidly growing in assurance and passion. I’m teaching him to kiss, Boromir thought, and his cock hardened unbearably.

Eomer pulled away for a moment, his breath coming hard. “Boromir, I cannot claim to know all of my mind, but I know that I want you.” For the first time, he slid his hands down over Boromir’s buttocks. “I want to do what men do . . . with men. With you.” His eyes darkened. “You are beautiful.”

They pushed off the last of their clothing, then Boromir rolled to his opposite side so his back was against Eomer’s chest. Hands grasped his hips and pulled him close.

“Show me how to do this,” Eomer breathed in his ear. Boromir pulled away for a moment. He had found salve among the men’s supplies, and had used it earlier on the gashes he had suffered in the river. He had Eomer lie behind him, both of them on their sides, then Eomer followed his instructions and slid his salved finger inside Boromir. Boromir did not want any additional preparation -- he was more than ready for what was to come next -- but he thought Eomer needed a better understanding of what they were about to do. “There must be far less of this among the Rohirrim than among the soldiers of Gondor,” Boromir reflected.

He gasped.

“Have I hurt you?” Eomer asked.

“No! I will tell you if you do. Do not worry about the sounds I make, or we will get nowhere. Press down with your finger . . . Ah!” Without being asked, Eomer was moving his finger in and out.

“You like this,” Eomer growled. His finger moved faster, and he thrust his hips against Boromir’s buttocks, following the motion of his hand. Boromir could wait no longer. He applied the salve to Eomer and turned back on his side.

“Go slowly at first,” Boromir panted. He moved one knee up to his chin to make it easier; Eomer was the second largest man he had lain with. Not as long, but possibly wider. “Oh gods not that slowly . . .”

Eomer sped up. After a few strokes he rolled Boromir onto his stomach and covered him with his body. The hard hands grasped his hips. Boromir wavered for a moment, then gave in to his desire: he knelt, pillowed his head on his arms, and arched his back, his buttocks in the air. The posture of submission. Eomer made a low sound deep in his throat.

“Move as fast as you want now,” Boromir panted. He let out such a loud cry after the first hard thrust that Eomer froze. “Don’t stop, damn you! I’ll let you know if . . .” His cries filled the air of the copse. The horses made inquisitive blowing noises.

Eomer was filling him. Boromir thought he had never been taken this hard before, yet he could sense power lying in wait in Eomer’s hips and thighs.

“Harder,” Boromir said, hoping he would not regret it. He did not. Eomer’s thick cock was like lightening strikes inside him, the pleasure shooting up and down his spine.

“How long do you want me to last?” Eomer said in a rough voice. Boromir tried to say, “As long as you can,” but only groans came out of his mouth. Eomer’s hands gripped his hips painfully hard, the strong fingers digging in. He imagined what Eomer looked like behind him, the powerful hips moving, the muscular arms holding him, and he screamed hoarsely and came. Eomer let out a series of loud, gasping cries and fell on top of him, then rolled onto his side, embracing and kissing him.

“I did not know a man could climax from that,” Eomer said. He was grinning triumphantly.

“If you are lucky,” Boromir said, and they laughed. “It has only happened once before for me,” he said. Eomer gloated; there was no other word for it.

“So different than I thought it would be,” Eomer said in a softer voice.

“How so?” Boromir said. Sleep was overtaking him.

“I felt it here as well,” Eomer said. He took Boromir’s hand and placed it over his heart. Boromir could feel it beating steady and strong under his hand.

“My lord,” Boromir said gently. He stroked Eomer’s hair.

“You cannot call me that. You outrank me,” Eomer muttered, his hands grasping Boromir’s hips unthinkingly.

“Not in each other’s arms,” Boromir said. “Here we are equals. I am yours. You are mine.”

They slept through the night, leaving the horses on watch.

***

The next day, Boromir relaxed when he realized they would not leave the copse that day. Instead, they restored Boromir’s equipment to a pristine condition: polishing his armour, sharpening his sword, oiling his leather surcoat, and mending the rips in his garments. They washed his clothing and hung it up in the trees to dry, for it was musty after its dunking in the river, followed by three days of being wadded into a bag. Eomer gave him a clean pair of breeches, which fit him well, although the legs were slightly too long.

Throughout the day, Eomer would occasionally stop what he was doing, embrace Boromir, and give him a blistering kiss. But when Boromir tried to take it further, Eomer only laughed and told him to get back to work.

By the end of the day, Boromir could think of nothing but getting Eomer naked and into the tent. As the sun went down, they built a fire and ate well from the provisions scavenged from the ruffians. When Eomer sat back, relaxed, Boromir sat next to him and embraced him, kissing him hard. Eomer pushed him away and laughed.

“Can’t you keep your hands to yourself?”

“No,” Boromir said. Eomer was wearing only breeches and a tunic; Boromir put his hands underneath the tunic and stroked Eomer’s nipples. Eomer stood and walked away, laughing. Boromir was disappointed only for a moment, for Eomer was heading to their tent. He followed him inside.

“Lie down, Boromir,” Eomer said. Boromir did so with a grin. The commanding tone in Eomer’s voice amused and aroused him. Eomer lay next to him, not touching him.

“I’ve been watching you, Man of Gondor,” Eomer said. “You stare at me as if you were going to roast me and eat me.”

Boromir’s laugh was silenced when Eomer stripped off his clothing. Boromir hurriedly did the same. The air was growing chill, so he pulled blankets up over them.

Eomer moved closer but still did not touch him. “I’ve noticed something else about you. You like it when I hold you too tight. And you like it when I take you too hard.”  
Boromir’s breathing quickened. Was Eomer trying to make him climax just with words? He reached for Eomer, who batted his hand away. Suddenly, Eomer moved on top of him.

“You like it when I overwhelm you, do you not?” Eomer whispered. Boromir stared up at him, speechless. He thought of the vision that had come to him the first time Eomer’s arms had been around him, of being crushed, used, loved. A small smile curled Eomer’s lips. Before Boromir could think of something to say, Eomer wrapped his arms around him, pining his arms to his sides, kissing him hard, his tongue deep in Boromir’s mouth.

Eomer was holding him exactly the way he had wanted. It felt even better than he had hoped. He spread his legs so Eomer would rest between them, and Eomer’s erection pressed against him. He gasped, the sound muffled by Eomer’s mouth covering his.

Eomer released him for a moment and pushed his legs up, bending Boromir’s knees, his fingers aggressively entering Boromir’s body, smearing salve on him. He shoved his cock in with one thrust, pushed Boromir’s knees against his chest, and then wrapped his arms around Boromir, legs and all. His lips were back on Boromir’s mouth, forcing it open. Then he began to move inside him.

The pleasure was so intense Boromir’s eyes watered. This was what he wanted . . . He let out a cry when Eomer pulled him up off the ground, leaning back on his haunches until Boromir rested on his thighs. He nudged Boromir’s bent legs over his shoulders and gripped Boromir’s buttocks. Boromir grasped Eomer’s arms to keep from falling backward.

The full weight of Boromir’s body was forcing him down on Eomer’s cock, but he could not move, was forced to rely on Eomer’s arms moving him. His head fell back and curses, pleas, and promises poured from his lips -- anything to make the feeling last. Now each thrust was making him scream. And then he was there, his entire body erupting in ecstasy, the world red behind his eyelids squeezed tightly shut. He went limp and took in great, gasping breaths. Eomer turned him over and entered him again, pounding into his pliant body, climaxing with a loud cry.

A few moments passed before Boromir realized the heavy weight of Eomer was still on him, then Eomer rolled off him and embraced him lovingly.

“Is that how you like it, Boromir?” Eomer whispered. His breathing was still fast and deep. Boromir could feel Eomer’s heart beating through his chest.

“I’ve never had it like that before,” Boromir said drowsily. “But the answer appears to be yes.”

Eomer laughed. “Boromir, after all the lovers you have had, don’t tell me that’s the first time you’ve felt like that.”

“It is the first time I’ve felt like that,” Boromir said. There was nothing else to say; it was true. Eomer had moved his body in a way it had never been moved before; Boromir had felt consumed. And adored.

They kissed gently, brushing their lips together. “You really have not felt that before,” Eomer said at last.

“I have not. But I hope to feel it again some day.”

Eomer laughed and pulled him close. “If you are good.”

***

The following day, they finished their chores, and they talked. Boromir told Eomer the full tale of Mardil. Indeed, he told Eomer everything of himself except for Faramir. That was not his secret alone.

What Eomer found fascinating was how young Boromir had been when he knew what he wanted: men.

“I am different, for I have wanted women,” Eomer said. “How could I have lived so long without knowing I prefer men?”

“Perhaps because you do not,” Boromir said. “There are many men who like women and men equally, or favor one slightly over the other. Even I could marry and have children if I had to. But I’m going to leave that to my brother.” Boromir chuckled, then grew silent.

He strongly believed that Faramir should marry and have a family. Faramir would be a wonderful father. How his children would love him . . . and any woman would be lucky to have him.

“I do not need to marry. That burden is on my cousin,” Eomer said with a smile.

Boromir was silent. While he loved Faramir more than anyone on earth, he did not wish to condemn his brother to loving him solely. When he returned to Gondor, he had resolved to tell Faramir that he was released from their bond, if bond it could be called. Faramir had taken no lovers but him.

He had put himself in the way of Faramir finding love.

He had thought about it on the long road north. He had been miserable, thinking of the lonely life that awaited him when he returned. But now he felt a stirring of hope. He would return through the Gap of Rohan, and see Eomer again. Would it be possible for him to come to love this man? There was something in Eomer, and in their lovemaking, he had never experienced but with Faramir, and he sought to put it into words. Self-assurance. That was it. Eomer _expected_ Boromir to love him. He knew his own worth, and it made him unbearably lovable.

“You are not sharing your thoughts with me, Boromir,” Eomer chided gently.

“They are somewhat dark,” Boromir said. “The only light in them are the thoughts of you.”

Eomer smiled and caressed him briefly. Once again, he kept Boromir at arm’s length throughout the day. Unlike the previous day, however, Boromir found the horse lord frequently staring off into space, smiling mischievously at nothing.

The Marshal was up to something.

***

As the sun went down, Boromir decided they had stayed out of the tent long enough. He washed himself in the stream, puffing in the cold water, then went to the tent wrapped only in a blanket. If Eomer did not join him soon, he would tie the man up and keep him in the tent until he had had his fill . . .

He looked up with a guilty expression when Eomer entered the tent. “Thinking of what sauce to serve me with?” Eomer asked. Boromir reddened. Eomer lay down next to him and regarded Boromir’s nakedness thoughtfully.

“I have a surprise for you,” Eomer said.

Good. An end to the suspense. “And it is?” Boromir asked.

“You will have to shut your eyes,” Eomer said.

“It’s dark!”

“The moon is out.”

“All right.” Boromir lay back on the blankets and closed his eyes, unable to keep from grinning.

“I don’t trust you to keep your eyes closed.”

Boromir protested half-heartedly when Eomer tied a cloth around his eyes. He listened to Eomer leave the tent, then came a series of sounds that were oddly familiar. Was Eomer cooking something? Boromir could hear rustling and clanking sounds.

After a quarter of an hour, Eomer’s heavy tread approached the tent. Boromir had no idea what was going to happen next; he was expecting anything from a pan of cold water upended over his head to a hot tongue on his belly.

He heard Eomer enter the tent. If Eomer didn’t touch him soon, he was going to start laughing.

“Whatever you do, don’t move,” Eomer said softly. There was a clinking sound, then ice cold metal touched Boromir’s chest. His nipples were instantly as hard as rocks. The metal was gone and his nipples were squeezed by leather clad fingers. The chill metal must have been a sword, left in the stream to make it cold.

He reached for Eomer and touched metal. Eomer lay next to him, still squeezing his nipples, and cold metal touched Boromir’s side. Eomer was wearing his armour! Boromir was flabbergasted, and instantly hard.

He moved to embrace Eomer, but the horse lord was faster and lay on top of him, his weight heavier by forty pounds. The cold metal made Boromir’s skin jump and tingle. Eomer had left off his sleeveless leather surcoat, with its numerous buckles, so Boromir’s skin was against the smooth chain mail only.

“Surprised?” Eomer whispered.

“Yes!” Boromir gasped. He moaned as the cold metal rings slid over his erection. Eomer adjusted himself so that he could squeeze Boromir’s nipples again, and kissed him. He was not wearing a helmet, thank the gods, Boromir thought.

Over his initial shock, Boromir was aware of the effect the armour was having on him. It heightened his vulnerability: he was naked and defenseless, and Eomer was clad in steel. He spread his legs and moaned when the smooth cold rings touched the insides of his thighs.

Eomer chuckled. “It’s good that you are willing, for this soldier is going to have you, regardless.”

Boromir tentatively wrapped his arms and legs around Eomer. He let out a loud cry when a leather clad hand grasped his cock.

“You are too eager. We are going to have to slow you down.” Eomer whispered, letting go of his erection and pulling off his blind. Boromir could see the armour glinting in the faint moonlight that penetrated the tent.

Eomer’s armour was designed for a rider, so the slit in front went almost to his waist. Boromir frantically tried to reach between Eomer’s legs. Sighing with mock disappointment, Eomer rolled Boromir over onto his stomach. He pulled Boromir’s hands together behind his back and tied them at the wrists with a belt. Boromir felt a brief thrill of fear at the loss of movement, but his body overrode it, desperate for more pleasure.

“Shhh,” Eomer whispered. “Now that I have you here in my tent, _captive_ , you will be silent, and do as I say.”

Boromir struggled to stay quiet while Eomer slid gloved hands over his skin, from his neck to his ankles. If he could not speak, there were other ways to ask for what he wanted: he got up on his knees, although it was awkward with his hands bound behind him, his face pushed into the blankets, his buttocks in the air. Eomer patted his rump. “Not yet.”

Boromir sighed in disappointment, then shivered when a gloved finger slid down his cleft. Cold oil trickled onto his skin and he made a noise before he could stop himself.

“Shhh,” Eomer said. He knelt behind Boromir and leaned over him. Boromir let out another involuntary sound when the cold chain mail touched the backs of his legs. Eomer pushed an oiled leather clad finger inside him.

I hope he has another pair of gloves, Boromir thought in his last moment of sanity. Dear gods, it felt good. So much bigger and smoother than a regular finger, and no worries about the nail scratching him . . . Eomer held himself up on one hand and both knees and covered him; Boromir gasped as the cold metal touched his back and his arms. The finger did not stop moving.

“Are you ready for me, captive?” Eomer whispered. His voice was strained. He added another finger and Boromir moaned, rocking his hips back, trying to hurry the pace. Eomer pulled away and Boromir groaned in disappointment.

He could feel Eomer fumbling with his clothing and then a hard cock brushed his buttocks. Boromir pushed back before Eomer was in position, drawing a curse from Eomer.

He grabbed Boromir’s hips to hold him still and eased himself in. He cursed again when Boromir pushed back hurriedly.

“Keep still, or you’ll get nothing,” Eomer growled. Boromir froze. Eomer started moving slowly. The chain mail slid over Boromir’s skin with each thrust. His skin was making the metal hot.

“Such a good captive,” Eomer said, putting a suggestive stress on the last word. “Would you like to say something?”

“Harder! Faster!”

Eomer removed the belt around his wrists so Boromir could raise himself on his hands and knees. Eomer covered him again and let some of his weight rest on Boromir, then complied with the request.

The pounding went on and on. An idea brushed Boromir’s mind, that Eomer might have taken his advice and released himself an hour beforehand so he could last longer. Eomer was putting more of his weight on him and Boromir’s arms and legs were trembling. He was breathing in great gasps. He couldn’t take much more. A leather clad hand grasped his erection and he realized he was going to come. He wasn’t sure he would live through it.

The soft, firm leather rasped on his cock. Oh, yes, he was going to come. He shouted Eomer’s name, a spasm wracked his body, then complete bliss flooded him. Eomer cried out into his ear and for a moment the full weight of the man, plus armour, rested on his back, as Eomer thrust into him one hard, final time.

Eomer rolled off him, then lay face up. Boromir moved to kiss him, and found Eomer’s mouth open in a grin.

“I have more armour back in Edoras. Plate, scale, leather . . .”

Boromir shut him up with a kiss, then helped Eomer remove his armour. They entwined naked on the blankets.

***

They slept for an hour. Boromir awoke to find Eomer kissing his neck. Boromir felt a freedom he had never experienced. There was no one around to accidentally see them, or hear them. They could make love naked on the ground if they wanted to.

“Whatever put that idea into your head?” Boromir asked.

Eomer laughed. “It is something I discovered years ago, when I was given my first mail shirt. I was fourteen or fifteen, I think. I was shirtless and put the mail on, impatient to wear it, and found it quite stimulating. That was how I found out about nipples.”

Boromir frowned. “Found out about nipples? But . . .”

“I hoodwinked you. Though my surprise at seeing you touch yourself that way was genuine. I didn’t know that any man other than myself found pleasure that way.”

“You . . .” Boromir was speechless. “You tricked me. You pretended to know nothing!”

“Compared to you, I do know nothing. It was quite a revelation to me when you touched my nipples. It felt so much better when you did it.”

“But you didn’t even know how to kiss!”

“That is correct, I did not. I had never been with anyone, Boromir.” Eomer kissed him. Boromir tried to stay enraged and managed it for a few seconds.

“I underestimated you,” Boromir said.

“Yes, you assumed a great deal of innocence on my part,” Eomer said, grinning wickedly. “You thought I didn’t see the way you stared at me in the tent when I undressed. Your eyes did terrible things to me. Why do you think I took the risk of touching myself with you there?”

“Was _that_ a trick? Did you purposely awaken me?”

“No. You took me by surprise again, when you touched yourself in front of me.”

Boromir let out a cry of mock outrage.

Eomer laughed helplessly. It was some time before he had breath to speak. “It was thrilling, watching you fight your urges: the older warrior, trying not to debauch the young innocent.” He spoke more soberly. “And yet I _was_ innocent; I was unprepared for what I felt when you touched me.” He regarded Boromir gravely. “Boromir, can a man love another man?”

Boromir’s heart lurched inside his chest. “Yes.”

Eomer embraced him fiercely. “When I saw Fram riderless, I feared you were dead. It was . . . terrible. I am ashamed of what I did to those men. I made them pay for my fear. Some of them were unarmed, and I cut them down.”

Boromir was having trouble breathing, Eomer’s grip was so tight. “I know. Please do not think of it. I am also ashamed. I am sorry for what I said to you. Accusing you of using me . . .”

Eomer laughed merrily. “As if you could ever be taken for a woman.” His voice dropped low. “My beautiful warrior.” They kissed hungrily.

_We’ll never get to sleep tonight_ , Boromir thought with satisfaction.

***

Boromir never wanted to leave the copse, but he knew he would have to continue his journey soon. Their supplies were sufficient for him to pass through the wilderness, and for Eomer to return to the Riddermark, but no more.

On the fourth morning, they readied themselves to depart. Eomer gave him the larger share of the men’s food they had scavenged. “I will be home in two weeks. You have at least two months of travel ahead of you, so your need is greater.”

They rode south back to the Greyflood. The journey that had taken Boromir and the ruffians three days on foot took only one day on horseback. They camped that night by the ford, keeping watch by turns.

In the morning, Eomer advised him to stay on the western bank, as Grima had done, though Boromir’s final road would lie east. “Far to the north, there may be scattered settlements near to the western bank of this river. You can trade Mickle there, if necessary, for supplies.”

“Theodred will be angry with you,” Boromir said, fighting back his grief at their parting. He wanted to remember it with joy, not sorrow.

“I will tell him I rescued a fair maiden.” Eomer said. “He’ll approve of that.” He embraced Boromir and kissed him fiercely until Boromir’s knees grew weak.

“You will come back to me, Boromir.” It was an order.

Boromir grinned. “Of course, my lord.” He mounted Fram. Mickle nosed up, close.

Eomer held Fram’s head and kissed the stallion between the eyes. Boromir barely heard his whispered words to the horse.

_“Do not return to me riderless.”_

*******

**Note:**  
For Ezellohar and the Filthy Man lovers at Library of Moria.


	3. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir's journey to Rivendell from Minas Tirith to Tharbad.

Relevant book quotes:

_“When I was sent out as a messenger, I passed through the Gap by the skirts of the White Mountains, and crossed the Isen and the Greyflood into Northerland. A long and wearisome journey. Four hundred leagues I reckoned it, and it took me many months; for I lost my horse at Tharbad, at the fording of the Greyflood.”_

Boromir II, FotR, Book II, Ch 8, Farewell to Lórien

_“In this evil hour I have come on an errand over many dangerous leagues to Elrond: a hundred and ten days I have journeyed all alone. But I do not seek allies in war. The might of Elrond is in wisdom not in weapons, it is said. I come to ask for counsel and the unraveling of hard words . . . “_

_”Of these words we could understand little, and we spoke to our father, Denethor, Lord of Minas Tirith, wise in the lore of Gondor. This only would he say, that Imladris was of old the name among the Elves of a far northern dale, where Elrond the Halfelven dwelt, greatest of lore-masters. Therefore my brother, seeing how desperate was our need, was eager to heed the dream and seek for Imladris; but since the way was full of doubt and danger, I took the journey upon myself. Loth was my father to give me leave, and long have I wandered by roads forgotten, seeking the house of Elrond, of which many had heard, but few knew where it lay.”_

Boromir II, FotR, Book II, Ch 2, The Council of Elrond

_“Tell me, lord,” he said. “what brings you here? And what was the meaning of the dark words? Long has Boromir son of Denethor been gone seeking an answer, and the horse that we lent him came back riderless. What doom do you bring out of the North?”_

Eomer, TTT, The Riders of Rohan

_“Your news is all of woe!” cried Eomer in dismay. “Great harm is this death to Minas Tirith, and to us all. That was a worthy man! All spoke his praise. He came seldom to the Mark, for he was ever in the wards on the East-borders; but I have seen him. More like to the swift sons of Eorl than to the grave Men of Gondor he seemed to me, and likely to prove a great captain of his people when his time came. But we have had no word of this grief out of Gondor. When did he fall?”_

Eomer, TTT, The Riders of Rohan

The meaning of horse sounds:

www.equusite.com/articles/behavior/behaviorSounds.shtml

Timeline:

Boromir sets out from Minas Tirith July 4, 3018  
Arrives in Rivendell October 25, 3018

I attempted to portray the geography, distances, and timeline of Borormir’s journey accurately, helped greatly by The Atlas of Middle-earth by Karen Wynn Fonstad. Any errors are all my fault.

Sheen: would translate to Moon or Luna

Fram: like Brego, this horse is named after a hero of Rohan.

Mickle: means “great” in the Mannish tongue.

Firefoot: the name of Eomer’s horse during the War of the Ring. Based on his name, I assumed he was red in color.

Mundberg: the Rohirric name for Minas Tirith.

The ages of the principal characters are book verse, not movie verse. Theodred is portrayed as Eomer’s age in the movies, when he was actually Boromir’s age.

Boromir living to one hundred years or older: Faramir lived to be 120 years of age.

Fermented mare’s milk: an alcoholic beverage common to cultures whose lives revolve around horses. It seems reasonable that the Rohirrim would have such a beverage, especially as the Scandinavians made it, _kaeldermaelk_ and _filbunke_.

Cracks in horse hooves: horses with uneven gaits do indeed have this problem, although any horse can. Nowadays, it is not unusual to use superglue to fix the cracks. My knowledge of horses is quite minimal, so if I have made any gruesome errors, feel free to correct me.

The ruffians: you may recognize the unsavory men the Ringbearer and his companions meet later in Bree: rabble unleashed by Saruman to terrorize the Shire. Some of them were in Bree in late September when the Hobbits arrived; Boromir arrived in Rivendell in last October, so it is sort of reasonable to assume their paths crossed in Dunland.

***

This story is the second in my Boromir and Faramir story arc, which I am writing backwards, or perhaps outside in.

1\. Shining One  
2\. Riderless  
3\. Roads Forgotten  
4\. Dreams Of Hope  
5\. Twenty Years Wiser

All of them can be found at HASA, or here:

http://www.livejournal.com/users/stewardess_lotr/


End file.
